Stars Revisited
by Fahrenheit Sidhe
Summary: What were the stars? And why did they captivate him so? Inspired by "Engel" by Rammstein. This is a rewriting of my original, which is still posted. This one is more powerful, in my opinion.


As clouds drifted away from the melting sun, the close of day was upon the world. Pale yellows, brilliant oranges, and deep shades of crimson heralded the sun's temporary departure from the world. Soon, the night world would reign supreme over the section of land. An inky charcoal-shaded blue won the battle for dominance as night fell, claiming the land from the high mountains to slithering river. A bright moon crested the mountain and with it came twinkling stars of the brightest silvers, brilliant champagnes, and blazing cyans. The glittering celestial bodies proudly overtook the pungent blue, and it was those very celestial bodies that fascinated the young boy sheltered securely within the folds of a blanket.

Alone in his room with silver hair tucked neatly behind his ears, the boy curled his knees to his chest as he sat upon his window sill observing the world beyond the slowly frosting glass. Intelligent eyes in the shade of emeralds let no detail go to waste of the sky above him. The stars had always fascinated him. Were there other beings waiting to greet them? Were the alluring stars the embodiment of lonely beings high beyond the clouds? Despite his studies and knowledge of the universe beyond, he had asked the professor what the stars were. As if to dismiss the question for its naivety, he received a mechanical answer: "_Why, Sephiroth, have you not been keeping up with your studies? Silly child, the stars are large bodies of gas held together by the binding force of gravity."_

As the memory filtered through his mind, Sephiroth wrinkled his nose in a brief disgust as he tugged the blanket far tighter than he thought possible. He didn't believe that was what a star was; there were too many for them _all_ to be made up of gases. There was too much gray area in the world, and someone else had proposed that mythical beings were out there. He curled his toes within his socks as he considered what entity befit the stars, and from his limited knowledge of legends, he landed upon angels. Angels were lonely enough beings to be solitary in the sky far beyond the grasp of man and titans alike. Weren't angels made from souls of those who had their lives stolen from them without just cause?

Were those angels as lonely as he was? He wondered as a cloud slowly careened through the atmosphere to blot the glistening lights from his sight. His eye brows furrowed sadly as a frown surfaced on his face. In that moment, he decided he did not want to be an angel if those beings were as lonely as he frequently felt. His true self was already hidden well behind the painted mask the professor and countless others had touted for him, and he did not want clouds to overshadow him into eternity. Hidden from the sight of others, he could be subject to tortures he didn't want to imagine, and in the shadows of the universe, who would be there to help him? What if the light disappeared forever; would he be able to stand tall and strong against the fear that would permanently grip him? Even with the blanket curled about him in the manner it was, he shuddered as if the mako from earlier had not settled into his system again. Perhaps he should go to bed, he decided as fear slowly formed tendrils in his tired mind. Praying from a dreamless night, he shifted to uneasy feet and mechanically moved to the warmth of the other blankets covering his bed.

* * *

Years later, Sephiroth found himself caught in an inescapable plague of déjà vu as he found his eyes slowly drifting skyward as conversation around the encampment slowly died. Genesis had even fallen strangely silent as night surrounded them once more. Without excusing himself, Sephiroth slowly rose to his feet as his thoughts began to rush through the same questions he had asked in his adolescence. He muttered a quiet excuse as to where he was going to Angeal, who informed him not to be absent for too long.

Sephiroth slipped through the perimeter of the encampment, and as he walked, his green eyes were drawn to the sky once more. The gaze had long since lost its innocence, which had been soiled by Hojo and the gruesome sights of war; the intelligence behind the gaze remained unwavering. He ceased his walk once he was certain he was beyond any prying eyes and settled himself beneath a tree with his head tilted skyward.

Without camaraderie, the angels were alone, and they were certainly isolated this night more than any other in this gloomy war. Sephiroth reflected on their state and filtered it into a mirror of his own. Those beings far beyond his grasp were saddened by the loss of human life, and to some degree, he felt the same way. How many poor men must pay the price for their overlords? Would he become one of those men before this war was through? Perhaps, he would become the thing he feared to become the most: an angel. With a disheartened sigh, he turned his gaze from the sky beyond him and focused on the Wutain mountains looming in the distance and found himself wondering if a titan would be any better than angel. No, he decided; a titan would not be any better than an angel. Angels were protectors of something, someone while a titan was a menace to all who came into contact with it.

Better an angel than a titan, yet what if the titans and angels were one the same? Anger or sadness would dictate where a being arose in those ranks. Which would he succumb to first? Green eyes narrowed in sadness. Which one indeed?

* * *

Anger was what he succumbed to first. This mako treatment had been unlike his others, and he resented the damned scientist for it, resented his inability to stop it, resented the company for forcing him into it. Yet, the heavens forbid if he were to lose his value and purpose to this company. He swore, cursed, and vowed he would never be an angel. Was he doomed to be the titan the company was intent to morph him to be?

His fist collided with the sparring dummy, sending it careening to the floor in wake of his anger. The strike did not quell his anger, and his fury was pale and cold by the time he managed to return the dummy to its original position. He stormed from the training area in slow, deliberate strides to hide his true mood from those third years entering it to begin their regimented training. He was retreating to the sanctity of his personal rooms, and he did not stop in his retreat until he had the door secured behind him.

As he threw his coat from his shoulders and discarded it to who-knew-where in his living room, he vowed to rip whatever wings he would be granted from his shoulders. He would destroy whoever thought it would be a good laugh to place him in the situation he was in. How was he to escape from the treatments that turned his world into a dangerous and unstable place? What god had he angered enough for this smite? When he found that god, he would rent his wings before them and let them see the gore, feathers, and bones clatter to the floor in his rage. He would not be alone in his exile. He would take that god with him to the furthest reaches of whatever Hell could be conjured. He would inflict the same pain they had inflicted upon him to keep the rest of the world from suffering what he had. He would _never_ be alone in his exile.

* * *

Rage snapped at his senses, and it was only fueled by that demon whispering words into his ears. He couldn't see that blonde standing a few feet from him; it didn't matter. All that mattered was the sound of feathers rushing into the air. This demon chose to smite him just like those gods did so long ago. He fought for control of his arms; he would not allow himself to die in the form what he most despised. If only he were allowed to reach and cleave the wing from his back, he would be happy; he could beat this demon then. Gunmetal reached his frenzied green gaze.

Pain succeeded it with sweet abandon, and her screams silenced at last. The wing was still firmly attached to his back, and he fell as despair settled into his abdomen. His defeat did not sadden him; rather, he was wholly indifferent. The presence of the lone black wing was all the more reminder he needed of his short comings, and his sadness drowned him as he slowly started to slip into the darkness. He could see a different person clad in red moving towards him before his vision fled him completely; they were familiar, and their presence was comforting in ways that his father's never was. The ground rose to meet him before throwing him to the sky above. He would be alone in his exile amongst the other angels snatched wrongly from their lives.


End file.
